No Scones For The Dead
by TheHiddenCard
Summary: A ghost saved Arthur the other day, but how was he supposed to know that it was a ghost of a dead pilot from 1918? And that it would follow him, and that he would actually grow fond of it. No no, there simply wasn't room for a ghost relationship in his already messy life. - usuk
1. We Met On The Roof Top

Summary: a ghost saved Arthur the other day, but how was he supposed to know that it was a ghost of a dead pilot from 1918? And that it would follow him, and that he would actually grow fond of it. No no, there simply wasn't room for a ghost relationship in his already messy life.

* * *

Chapter 1.

We Met On The Roof Top

If any of the busy people in New York had bothered to look their linear gazes upward, they might have been stunned to see a person, sitting on the edge of a skyscraper. He was a rather handsome young man, but anyone would say that he looked like a quite ordinary person, except for the fact that he was wearing a pilot's bomber jacket, and clothes that belonged centuries ago. What they didn't know was that this was not a simple fashion failure or an attempt of standing out.

But even if the busy people in the town of New York had bothered to look up, they still wouldn't have seen this person, who was very far from the ordinary.

The person closed his eyes and if he thought really hard, he could almost remember how it felt like to have the wind blow back your hair, although his own sat perfectly still on his head despite the wind. The sun warming his face, and the smell of the town. Those sensations were very foreign now. He hadn't felt anything at all, not since 1918, where a german shot down his plane in World War 1, and killed him almost instantly.

It wasn't like Alfred had wanted to die in the war, his preppy teenage self had actually been certain that death was not an option. But, if he should die on the battlefield, he would still see it as a sort of badge of honor. His father had been a Revolutionary War general, and had died in war as well.

That would all have been grant and glorious, if it wasn't for the fact that Alfred F. Jones. Was. Still. Here!

He hadn't gone to heaven, next life, void of darkness, Vegas or anywhere else a dead person needs to check in… or _out_.

He didn't remember how he died, not in details at least. He just remembered the General wishing him luck with a proud salute. Then he went into his beloved plane, and went off to battle. He remembers flashes more, of shouts, fire and someone touching him, although he was sure he had been alone in the plane.

The next thing he remembered he was in a hospital, and heard people murmur frantically around him, but he didn't understand the language. He sat up in the bed, but the nurse didn't even seem to notice that he had done so. When he spoke to her, she didn't even flinch. In the end he had reached out and touched her shoulder, and she had only shuddered a little, with no other reaction.

If we skip over the freak-out and depression, Alfred had slowly started to understand that he was no longer alive soon after. He could go right through everything he wanted to, and when he touched people they would only get goosebumps, no matter how hard he tried to hit.

So what? He was a _ghost_? That was just freaky! He never got a memo about it from any higher powers. But he was definitely stuck in a state between death and life. He had never thought that could be true, and he had never seen another ghost as long as he had been dead.

His body had been shipped back to America after he died, and he was buried in the center of New York... there was a memorial a few streets down in Central NY, where he was buried next to some military buddies, who unfortunately wasn't showing their faces either. It was kind of his... home, he supposed.

He felt kind of depressed when he thought about all of this. He would rather not. He had been through some pretty hardcore depressions in his dead life, and haunted a few poor people in the worst of his rage. Suicide was not an option, he had tried. No, he would rather watch the happy people as they kept on living, since it was the only way to et rid of boredom. He had a few favorite people living in the town. Maybe he would go see Matthew today. He always liked Matthew, he reminded him of a brother he had had back in the days, who-

_Slam! _

Thoughts of the past were cut off when the door to the roof behind him. Forcibly yanked open. The door hit the back wall with a metallic clash. Alfred had nearly slipped off of the edge and down on the street, but managed to catch himself on the railing in the last moment.

His blue eyes turned to the person who had opened the door. He looked like a businessman with a suit, and a tie that had been loosened so much that it was hanging down his chest. But that was all his eyes had time to register, because the man started running toward the other side of the roof, and grabbed onto the railing there. He was clearly upset. The wind ripped in his clothes and hair, and Alfred felt a little jealous about that.

His hands were clutching at the metal, and Alfred could see his shoulders shake, as if he was sobbing. His blonde locks jumped a little with every sob, it looked so strange with the messy hair on such an upright-looking guy.

If Alfred had been an actual living person, he might have felt like he was disturbing his personal space, but after years, he had realized that his actions made no difference to the living people's lives.

He slowly motioned closer, and now he could hear his sobs. They sounded weak and utterly pathetic, and Alfred was sure he would have felt a stab to the heart, if he had had one. Maybe depressing images wasn't a good idea today. He could go see the happy kids in the toy stores or something. But for some reason he didn't move just yet.

The guy's sobbing became hiccups, and Alfred's eyes widened a little when he straightened and grabbed tighter around the railing and… looked down. Oh, he wasn't going to do what Alfred thought, was he?

The blonde, whose face he hadn't even seen, started to breathe more deeply to calm himself, closing his eyes in concentration. "Okay…" he whispered to himself. "It won't hurt… it won't hurt…" he mumbled, and Alfred took a step closer.

In all his years he had never seen an actual… suicide.

The guy swallowed and then bounced his body up on the railing to climb over. Alfred's eyebrows furrowed and his blue eyes stared at the man, as he supported his body with his hands and lifted a leg to get over the metal. That's when it clicked for him.

"Wha- nah- Stop!" Alfred burst out.

The guy froze.

Alfred froze.

Then the blonde very slowly turned his head, revealing bright green eyes filled with tears, but they had morphed into surprise instead of sadness. Alfred stared back. This person's gaze was fixed on him, and the American actually turned his head to see if there was someone behind him, but there was only roof.

When he turned back the guy had dropped his feet back on the roof in a flash, his eyes still on Alfred, and he quickly wiped his tears and cleared his throat. "Forget you ever saw that, okay?" he said with a tone of authority that didn't match his appearance, and he noted the British accent.

Alfred only stared.

Was this guy talking to _him_?

The guy swallowed and shifted his tie back in place. "I'm sorry you had to witness that."

Alfred still stared.

Then the others eyes flickered a little and he let his hands drop again. "I wasn't going to jump," he assured him, with a humorless chuckle and shook his head as if that was ridiculous.

Alfred slowly lifted a finger and pointed at his own chest. "Er..."

The man waited for him to continue, but as there came no more interaction, besides a strange guy with a gaping mouth and century old clothes, his eyes just averted him swiftly. He started taking a step toward the door. "Well… sorry for the misunderstanding," he said slowly.

Alfred tried to form words, he really did. He had been talking to himself for ages, but now they all seemed to fail.

"Goodbye," the guy mumbled in the end, and then he hurried toward the door as quickly as he had come out a moment ago.

"Wai- eh," Alfred formed, and lifted a hand toward him, but the door was already closing with the same metallic sound. He listened to the echo for a while, still with his hand raised to where the guy had disappeared.

After a moment of silent, Alfred's eyes widened in shock. His hands bend into claw-like look of despair, and he made a jump. "Holy _shit_ dude, did you just _talk_ to me!" he exclaimed, loudly. Although the guy was far off.

* * *

Thank you for reading! Please review if you would like to see more.


	2. An Average D- Well, Except For The Ghost

Thank you so much for all the reviews. Wow, you guys are awesome and so sweet. :)

* * *

Chapter 2

An Average da- Well, Except For The Guy In The Window

"What is this?"

A stack of papers was thrown on the desk, making Arthur look up stunned, and snapped him out of thought of roofs and the guy with glasses. The top of papers flew up and scattered down around the workstation randomly. A few people in the cubicles around the room looked up to see what the commotion was about, but lazily brought their gazes back to work when they saw who was quarrelling. The sight was nothing new or interesting to watch.

A charming French man was the speaker of the question, and his _victim_ was a blonde Englishman with a growingly more pissed expression. Francis Bonnefoy was standing his arms crossed over his chest, and looking at the other like he was a guilty little boy in kindergarten, and he was waiting for him to explain himself. Mr. Bonnefoy was the boss, and he seemed to be on Arthur Kirkland's case at every word and period he wrote for _his_ magazine.

Maybe it was because everyone knew that Arthur Kirkland only was working on this magazine until he could get on to bigger and better things. It was like Mr. Bonnefoy wanted him to pay for underestimating his magazine every moment of his life here – even if Arthur was the one with the highest education in this building.

Arthur held the man's gaze for a moment not moving, but icy cold. Then he looked at the mess of papers. When his eyes trailed up again he most have counted to ten or something, because his eyes were calmer. "It is my article about Summer Reading," he said, almost with venom on the title.

"Oui, you were supposed to advice our readers of something to read doing the summer," he agreed with exaggerated nodding. "But what did you offer them, Arthur?" He waved a hand.

Arthur paused, guessing where his mistake was lying already. Then he sighed and pressed his lips together a little, before answering very slowly. "I offered Shakespeare… and Sophocles."

"Oui, and how old are our average audience."

Arthur attempted to stare a hole through his head, but when it didn't work, he mumbled. "16."

"Excuse me?"

_Are you deaf? You bloody frog! _"16!" he repeated louder, and started swiping up the papers that had scattered.

"Aah, I do believe you're correct," Francis praised, although it only sounded mocking. "Now, would you please write me a new article, that will actually be fit for 16 year old girls? Maybe something like a romantic comedy? That would be proper, do you understand?" he challenged him sweetly, with a superior smile, and turned around on his heel, disappearing into his office again.

"I could write you a bloody article of what is _proper_," Arthur muttered to himself and crumbled the paper in his hand, and threw the ball after him where he had disappeared, although it didn't even make it half way to his office door. Then he turned his head at a newcomer who was still staring at the scene with surprise. "What are you ogling at, lad?"

The boy retreated his gaze, and Arthur sighed deeply, flopping back in his seat. He looked at his computer, and opened a new clean document. Staring at it. One day he would actually write something meaningful on one of these pages. Something about history maybe. He wanted to interview people who actually had a real story to tell, and not lovesick, obsessed, maniacal teenage girls, who were rating a brainless celebrity with charming eyes on a scale of 1 to 10.

But let's face it. Before he got a higher recommendation from Francis Bonnefoy, he was going nowhere. Aka, he _was_ going nowhere.

With a sigh, his head fell onto the computer, creating a mass of random letters on the document, and Arthur thought it fitted his inspiration level quite well.

He needed a _drink_. Unfortunately all they had here was water and coffee. Not even tea did they have. Worst job ever.

Arthur picked himself up from the desk and was pretty sure he had marks from the keys imprinted on his forehead, but chose to dismiss it. He stood up and went to the break-room to take some water from the tank. A few eyes in the back of his neck all the while. This was why he was always on the edge. He loved writing, but work was a nightmare, and the people working here was even worse. Like high school all over, with gossipers all over.

He filled a small cup of water and took a sip, closing his eyes. "Think of the future, Arthur. Think of the future," he mumbled to himself, and then turned, planning to take a seat by the window while he finished his water.

But just as he had turned, he let out a gasp. The plastic cup slipped from his fingers and water splashed all over the floor, and up the end of his pants. Outside the window, a person was looking _right_ at him.

Curious blue eyes observing his every move, as if he was watching a very interesting movie. He seemed to flinch a bit when he dropped the water, but then a grin spread on his lips.

Arthur was mortified. First of all they were on the 24th floor, and second of all, the guy didn't hold onto _anything_, just standing casually on the edge of the building where his shoes barely fit. About 50% of his feet was standing on thin air.

The guy just kept smiling, and lifted a hand. Waving at him experimentally, clearly hoping to get a wave returned. Was he completely _insane_?

Arthur hissed out a breath. Took three long strides toward the window. Fiddling with the lock, and slammed the window open.

"What the bloody hell-" he began, in the middle of a scolding, but stopped halfway, because there was not a single sign of him when he stuck his head out the window. The window bounced lazily off the wall, and back at him, but he caught it with a hand. The sound of traffic was the only thing filling the silence. Arthur blinked and grabbed onto the edge, leaning over to see if he had fallen down. But no. There didn't seem to be any commotion down there. More than usual. He looked up instead, as if he could have flown away. But there was nothing there either

He looked around a few times, blinking rapidly. He was so sure he had seen a guy standing there, and now that he thought about it, it was the same guy as the other day on the roof.

That day had been one of the less proud ones in Arthur's life, but he was grateful that the guy had stopped him. He regretted that he had even climbed the fence. He was sure it had been the same person, because he had been wearing the same odd clothes, and pale skin. Was he going crazy, and seeing things?

Reluctantly he closed the window again. As he locked the window up, he kept glancing down at the street.

"Arthur?" he heard behind him, and the voice made his observant eyes, turn annoyed again. "I don't think this is the appropriate time to take a break." He took a step away from the window. He turned, and brushed past the Frenchman without another word. It must have been his imagination, god knows he was stressed out enough to be seeing things.

So he walked back toward his desk, but stopped midway again.

His face seemed to drain of colour.

There. Right in front of his desk, stood the exact same person that he had seen outside the window. Now he could see him in full form. His hair was styled in a kind of old-fashioned style, with a single hair in disarray. His face was defined and kind, with the glasses resting gently on his nose, but the paleness and blankness of his eyes made that a little sullen. But besides his looks, he looked like nothing Arthur had ever seen in the modern day before. He looked like he had come from an old-fashioned fair. With his brown bomber jacket, military pants and big boots.

Arthur realized he had been standing, wide-eyed, in the middle of the floor for quite some time when someone coughed beside him.

He very slowly turned his head, and saw Francis look at him as if he was an idiot. He pointed at him and then at the desk. "Get to work."

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows. Did the 1900-dressed man in the room bother no one but him? Maybe he was a client… a strange one, but still that didn't explain that he had seen him outside the window.

Reluctantly Arthur started to walk closer.

The man followed him with his eyes. His eyebrows, that weren't very thick, were lifted in curiosity (– he only noticed eyebrows because it was an insecurity of hi owns, don't judge!) And his mouth was hanging just a little open at first, but as Arthur approached it lifted in a smile that Francis could have slapped on the front of his magazine.

"Hello," he said, having found his voice at last. The shock of the other day had had time to sink in finally, and he had to ask. "Do you see me?"

Arthur lifted one eyebrow by that question, his being thicker. "You are kind of hard to miss in that clothes, chap," he told him, and then walked around him to take a seat by his desk. Alfred couldn't believe it. He almost wanted to jump in joy, but he had to remind him that he wouldn't be invisible while doing that.

Arthur lifted his eyes, and cleared his throat. "Is there… anything I can help you with?" He hoped he wasn't seeking him about the other day. He really wouldn't appreciate that to be brought up at his workstation among these people.

"Well yes, my name is Alfred Jones, you met me on the roof," he told him and pointed his finger up.

Just as he feared. "Yes, I remember."

Alfred grinned, and Arthur's gaze flickered a little. He really didn't know why he would be so excited about that. "Well, this will sound very strange, but I haven't really talked to anyone for long-"

"Arthur!" Came Francis voice, and while Alfred's face turned, Arthur closed his eyes in annoyance. He looked up at Alfred with an apologetic gaze.

"Sorry, I'm at work, could I speak to you in a moment?" he mumbled, and seemed to make himself mentally ready for yet another scolding.

Alfred opened his mouth, but Francis spoke first. "You will talk to me now," he said directly. He almost walked into Alfred, but the man made a swift jump back just in time.

Arthur looked confused and then hurried to shake a hand. "Ah, I wasn't talking to you. I spoke to Alfred Jones," he said and made a hand-gesture toward the other, but as he did he noticed that the man was doing crazy X's with his hands. He looked at him with knitted eyebrows. Was he dumb?

Francis had meanwhile turned and looked around, with his arms crossed. "Who is Alfred Jones?"

"Um, _that_ is, Alfred Jones, an... acquaintance of mine," Arthur said, and pointed at him with a straight finger this time. Francis side-glanced toward the space he pointed at, but then looked back at him with a look that screamed 'are you kidding me?'. Alfred closed his eyes and looked almost pitifully at Arthur. The brit made a scoff. "You know, the man with the brown jacket, glasses and hair-thing, he is hard to miss," he mumbled, making a small flick off his head to illustrate Alfred's jumpy strand of hair.

"Hair-thing?" Alfred muttered and looked up at his head.

Francis meanwhile didn't even bother to look around this time. "Arthur, what are you talking about?" he asked him.

"The man! Right next to you," he said and this time looked more confused. Come on, why didn't he noticed him, and why didn't Alfred speak up and inform that he was the subject at hand?

"There is no man, Arthur," Francis said, his tone actually lowering from the usual superior tone.

Arthur's hand was still in the air, and he slowly lowered it down. He blinked and stared at Francis. "Yes… there is."

Francis lost patience and placed his hands on his desk. "Okay, Arthur. Tell you imaginary friend that you can either work on the article here, or at home in a less stressed environment, but I want it on my desk tomorrow at noon," he told him. Arthur stared at him.

"W-what? What do you mean imaginary?" he asked flustered and then stood up, making Francis frown. He still held a pencil in his hand, and pointed it right at Alfred's chest. "He. Is. Right-" he stopped instantly.

Arthur's eyes widened to double size. He had been pointing his pencil right at him, but without knowing he had hit right at his chest. Or, that would be, right where his chest _should _be. Alfred was standing completely still looking at him with a sheepish look in his eyes, with Arthur's 4H pencil right through his torso.

Arthur gasped and the pencil slipped from his fingers. Francis closed his eyes and sighed.

"If you think you need a break, you should just tell me so, Arthur dear," he told him, and normally Arthur would have exploded in reprimands for that nickname, but at the moment, he just stared at Alfred. Without another word he grabbed his keys on the table. Francis seemed to be genuinely surprised when Arthur started to leave. "Arthur?"

Alfred sighed and started going after him. "Let me explain, please?"

"Stay away from me!" Arthur exclaimed and pointed at Alfred with a threatening hand lifted. Alfred did halt, and looked at him with a frustrated look in his eyes, but didn't take another step. "Just…" Arthur babbled, and now the whole room was ogling at him. He looked around for a moment, before starting to slowly back off again.

Francis was standing with his mouth slightly ajar, then he slowly said. "Arthur, you look like you have seen a ghost."

Arthur didn't answer that, and soon he disappeared out of the room, as fast as his feet could carry him. He could have sworn that he had seen a flicker of a smile on Alfred's face by Francis comment.

No no, he had _not_ just seen a ghost. It was impossible.

oOo

"_Quoi_?" Matthew blurted out in french when Arthur told him why he had called.

"I saw a ghost…" he repeated a little louder, although still in a hissed tone, as if someone was listening.

Arthur was sitting with the phone, all the lights on, in his bed with the covers closely eloped around him. The clock read 4:15am on his clock in big red numbers, but he had been unable to close an eye all night, and he had definitely not written anything for work yet.

He could hear a sigh from the other end of the phone, and the rustle when Matthew sat up in his bed. He had obviously woken him up, which was really cruel, considering how hard his work-hours were. He heard a yawn, but still waited impatiently for him to respond.

"Hm. Are you sure? Are you calling me in your sleep, Arthur?" he mumbled. Arthur was his roommate from college and that was how they knew each other pretty well. But still, it was too late for talking.

"Of _course_ I'm sure, but I don't know who else to call," he mumbled into the phone. Arthur didn't have that many friends, but when you spend that much forced time together as him, and Matthew had doing school and free-time, you create a bond, simply to make the everyday work, that can potentially escalate and it had – although it took Arthur a month to even remember his name. He didn't have anyone else he could call in the middle of the night except Matthew. Lucky Matthew. But... "Who else would I call?"

"Hmm… Ghost Busters?"

"I'm not making this up!"

"Arthur, it's late…"

"I know. I know, but I am not sure what to do."

"Sleep?"

"Are you wanting me to freak out on my own?"

"_Oui_. I mean, yes. I mean, no," he said and Arthur could almost see him trying to make his brain work again and took a few breaths himself. It helped to have someone in the phone with him actually. "Hmm… how did he look like?" Matthew mumbled, and Arthur ignored how much he sounded like he wanted to sleep.

"Like... something from a _textbook_. He had this pilot uniform, with a brown bomber jacket, like in the military from… eh, the 1900. And… he had some of your features actually, but a little more defined," he told him, and heard another sigh through the line.

"A pilot _me_ from the 1900? Arthur, you stress yourself out. It was probably not real, or maybe a prank. Why don't you take tomorrow off?" he asked, and actually chuckled lightly.

"Maybe I should… I have had a lot on my mind," he mumbled in a little bit of a defeated voice.

"Yeah, with your break-up and the 'out of the closet', and now work, I think you deserved it."

"Thank you Matthew."

"Any time," he said quietly. "But I prefer when the sun is up."

Arthur chuckled lightly, and nodded although Matthew couldn't see that. "Okay. I will see you soon."

"Mhm, bye Arthur."

"Bye."

He slowly hung up, and set the phone back on his bedside table. He actually felt a little relieved, he would have to get some sleep now. He clicked the phone in the charger, but then paused in the movement by a clatter. A clatter? It sounded like thuds of metal against metal, from the kitchen. He frowned. The sounds were faint, but they were definitely there. He felt a shudder up his spine.

Should he call Matthew again? Or the police? ... Ghost Busters?

No. In the end, his hand slid off the protective surface of the phone. Matthew had been right, his mind had been playing tricks with him lately. He had went to the roof and after that seen a strange soldier appear everywhere he went. Freaked his office out, and just made a crazy phone call to Matthew at 4 in the morning. He shouldn't call the police without a reason too.

He let the covers fall down his shoulders and bravely climbed out of his bed. But he also grabbed his trusty bunny-plushie (not so bravely). His bare feet landed flatly on the floor, and he made sure not to step on that board that always made a noise.

Listing on egg-shells he went to the kitchen door, and slowly peeped his head in there.

_CLATTER! CLATTER! SPLASH! _

"Bloody hell!" Arthur yelped when a pan landed noisily on the floor just as he had made his way to the middle of the doorway. It bounced off a few times, and he felt a splatter of something land on his face. He froze where he was, his plushie close to his chest, and eyes wide. The bunny had a large beige spot on it's minty green fur now, that lumpily dripped down on the floor.

"I'm so sorry!" the culprit exclaimed. Arthur stared. It _was_ the pilot from the roof, standing right there in his kitchen, looking just as real as he had in the office a few hours earlier.

"Y-you!"

The pilot hurried to lift his hands up. "I'm sorry about earlier. I wanted to make you breakfast... but it's still difficult to make objects move, even after practicing for so long," he explained.

"What are you doing in my house?" Arthur exclaimed and quickly moved around the table, and held the bunny almost like a weapon. "Get out!"

"I'm cooking, calm down," he said slowly. Arthur's eyes slowly ventured around the place. Ingredients were put out on the table, and a dough was mixed in a bowl on the counter. The kitchen was a mess, especially now when there was pancake mix all over the floor. It seemed that he had put some on the pan, but lost it mid-air, and the rest of history.

"How did you make pancakes?" he whispered, still holding the bunny up.

Alfred smiled a little sheepishly. "Yeah, I kind of burrowed ingredients from your fridge, I hope you don't m-"

"No no, how did you _make _pancakes when you're a fragment of my _imagination_," he spelled and squeezed the plushie around the paw as he felt it up, but then felt the beige... _dough_... slide down on his hand, and looked at it. He whined inwardly when he realized that his bunny was dirty. How could that be? His things didn't just magically fly from the fridge.

"I don't think I am, please put the bunny down," he said with a slight smile. "My name is Alfred F. Jones, I died in World War 1, flying over German grounds." he informed. "I have been dead for many years... but I admit that I thought I was just a fragment a lot of times, but then you saw me."

"Hmm.. then I saw you.." Arthur mumbled, and stared at him cautiously.

"Would you please talk to me?" he asked him, and Arthur frowned. He looked very desperate. "I just want to talk." Arthur swallowed and reluctantly he took a seat by the blue plastic table in his kitchen, setting the bunny down beside him. Maybe it was good to confront this. Alfred smiled, and then grabbed a napkin from the counter and made it... float... toward Arthur.

He hesitated but then picked it from the air with two fingers. "Thank you..." The ghost send him another cover-smile, and took a seat in front of him. Arthur used the napkin on his bunny first, and Alfred watched him curiously. Arthur looked over at him as he sat down. "So... you followed me."

"Yes, you are the first conversation I have had in a very long time. Someone who can actually respond to me," he told him.

"Why me?"

"I don't know."

Arthur frowned, and finished up cleaning the bunny, before using the other side on his own face. "But you can't... stay here. You're not staying here, right?" Arthur asked him quickly. Alfred looked at him, and then shrugged his shoulders.

"I promise I won't be a bother. I am actually a decent cook, and I could keep you company too."

_Lovely_.

"Um... _Alfred..._ I don't think that would be a good idea," he told him slowly. He shouldn't even be talking so casually to him. The thing was, that it didn't feel like a haunting spirit sat before him, just a strangely dressed man, who could make things float around.

"I know..." he said, and Arthur was almost feeling sorry when he saw the sad expression that crossed his features. "It just, feel like hope, you know. After being alone for so long... please, just... let me stay."

"I..." Arthur began, and looked around for a bit. "Shouldn't you find... _peace_ or something. Why are you here?"

Alfred shrugged. "I don't know. I wish I could. I have tried all my life to do it, but there haven't been anything that worked."

Arthur sighed, and then closed his eyes. "Well.. You can't stay _here_.."

"I can live in the apartment next door?" he offered him and pointed a thumb to the wall. Arthur looked over there. Was he really going to let a ghost live with his neighbor? He wouldn't notice though.. hopefully.

"Maybe you shouldn't make pans fly in the morning at his place," he mumbled.

He chuckled. "I promise."

Arthur sighed. "That did not mean that- hey, where are you going?" he exclaimed as Alfred got up and started to toward the wall. He stopped with his foot... actually _through_ ... the wall, before he looked back at him.

"I'm going next door. To look at the place," he said matter-of-factly.

"You can't," Arthur said and furrowed his eyebrows. "You can't just live there... and would you get that foot out of the wall!" He wondered what people would think if they heard this conversation.

Alfred send him a smile. "I will be right back and finish the breakfast, I just want to take a look," he assured him. Arthur spluttered a bit of nonsense, but in the end he couldn't stop him before he had entirely disappeared through the wall. A silence spread over the kitchen and for a moment he just sat there wide-eyed.

"Alfred!" he hissed out, but got no answer. He took a sharp breath and ran a hand through his hair, staring at the table. He was officially going insane. Insane! Insane! Insane! A non-real person was living at his home, and he had a very real article for tomorrow.

He scraped the chair against the floor harshly and stood up. Then he went to his room, grabbed his computer and sprinted out of the apartment.

"Arthur?" he heard behind him, but that only made him run faster.

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you again to:

_TheFictionDreamer , ValeurStories, bottledinspiration, Klicks (totally make that story (: ), isa-kagamine, silverspark7x, MusicMixerGURL and TheLastofUs_ for all of your kind words. :3


End file.
